


The Binge

by Stephanielikes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Situations, Adult Themes, Angst, Drinking to Cope, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Gen, Nudity, Season/Series 09, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, post episode: s09e13 The Purge, short-short story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanielikes/pseuds/Stephanielikes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you go on when you're rejected by the only person you care about? What do you do when you're not worth saving? You start with whiskey and you don't stop. This takes place the morning after and directly following the closing scene in The Purge (season 9 episode 13).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Binge

The sun rose behind clouds, reddening the morning sky. Forgoing the stairs, Dean sat on the concrete retaining wall, scooching into the ditch that was the Men of Letters’ doorstep. He aimed the key too far to the right despite squinting to focus the keyhole into a single image. He pulled back and tried again clipping the top of the key but managing to slip it in. Dean twisted it left and right until he heard the familiar sound of the door unlocking.

Dean stumbled to the balcony. He didn’t remember it being so far above the comm station below. He bent over the rail; his head swaying back and forth as his perspective shifted. 

“Stairs.” He reminded himself - standing back up. Dean held onto the left handrail with both hands, sidestepping down the stairs carefully. His right boot caught on his left jean as he tried to cross behind and go down one step. Pulling his foot out from under himself, Dean slid down several stairs, banging his knee into the metal posts and pulling his shoulder muscles as he clutched the railing. 

“Ah, fuck.” Dean laughed with tears in his eyes, rolling onto his back and laying on the stairs.

“Dean?” Sam came from the library dressed in his running gear. “I got up this morning and the Impala was gone, your cell phones were all left in the library. I didn’t think you would come back.”

Smiling wide eyed and open mouthed, Dean turned his head to look at Sammy and stopped smiling.

“Where were you?”

 

\------------

Giselle shivered as the wind kicked up, cutting through the rayon dress as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all. She rubbed her bare shoulders wishing she had bought a wrap instead of the stilettos. She leaned against the bit of brick wall that was coated in street light, flinging her long black hair to the side and draping it down her shoulder. She smiled at the cars that slowed down.

“Your nipples could cut glass,” Betty came walking out of the alley with an unlit cigarette between her lips, followed distantly by the $30 blow job. “What’s your name?”

Giselle blinked, the glitter eye shadow sticking the folds of her eyelids together. “Giselle.”

“Mmmhmm.” Betty said, pulling matches from her bustier and lighting up. “’nd who’s that?”

“An enchanted princess.”

“One day you’re going to learn there is no Prince Charming. The only difference between that man,” she pointed at the john Monica was negotiating with, “and a prince, is _that_ man will give you an extra ten to let him come on your tits.”

“Fuck you too, asshole!” Monica yelled as the car drove off walking over to the two other women and accepting a drag from Betty’s smoke. “Shitface wanted to take me to his place, I’m like there’s a motel two blocks away, we can get things going faster, he says I’m not worth the added expense. As if an ugly ass pig fucker like him would know.”

“You hear her name?” Betty asked, taking her cigarette back. 

“More Disney bullshit. At least it isn’t obvious. I told her you tell a man you named Belle that deal is off.”

“Please,” Giselle took the cigarette and inhaled, letting the nicotine sear her lungs before blowing a perfect smoke ring, “you show me one man who doesn’t want to fuck a Disney princess and I’ll show you a gay-ass motherfucker.” 

Monica and Betty burst out laughing and Giselle smiled coyly. Giselle’s small breasts and slender hips might bring her less business than the full chest and round ass of Betty or Monica but she’d had enough to know that the men who pulled up weren’t even going to listen to her name. 9 out of 10 didn’t know how else to begin. The 10th never asked.

Headlights rolled slowly down the street. Betty tossed the cigarette to the ground crushing it beneath her four inch heel. All three women smoothed out their clothes, and posed. Giselle always stood back, working the innocent vibe that her slight frame gave her, but not too innocent that they’d be scared off. Bad enough if you get caught picking up a hooker, who wants to be booked for statutory too?

The street light rolled over the long black curves and chrome fixtures of some ancient muscle car. A boat sized car they built when gas was less than a dollar per gallon and moustaches were all the rage, the type that balding television detectives drove to prove that despite decreasing testosterone levels they were still manly men. The tires squeaked ever so lightly when it stopped. 

“Hiya, love,” Monica started.

“Not you. Her.” The john pointed at Giselle who stepped forward, peering into the face of her would-be client. He wasn’t young enough to be a college jock, or old enough to be the other type of man who favoured her. He was handsome with crew cut hair and two day old scruff, plus the prettiest lips she had ever seen. 

“What can I do for you, gorgeous?” She leaned her face into the car. It reeked of whiskey.

“How much for the night?” His voice was deep and raspy, his speech slurred.

Giselle hesitated. It was getting to the slow time of year - the few cars that did stop offered ridiculously low prices thinking the girls’d do anything to get out of the cold – and it was getting late. “The Night” was only three or four more hours. He was watching her with glossy eyes and half smiled when she held his gaze. He was drunk. She imagined his large hands pawing clumsily at her. He looked the type to jam his thumb in your mouth and think it was sexy, just to lean to the side and vomit from the rocking. 

“Sugar, for you: $750.”

He reached over and pushed the car door ajar. Giselle pulled it open enough for her to slip inside, but first dropped the flirty voice and blatantly said “Up front.” 

He shrugged and beckoned her to get in which she did. “There’s a motel two blocks up.”

He didn’t acknowledge that she said anything. His smile was gone and he was staring intently at the road. Giselle toed an empty whiskey bottle, otherwise, the inside of the car was immaculate. Though short, the drive was awkward, usually the boys made stumbling conversation but here was just dead silence, not even the radio was turned on.

He didn’t make her go into reception, though he didn’t tell her not to either. He left the car running, stopped directly in front of the office, and without saying anything went inside, got a room and then parked. 

“Roll up the window, would ya?” He reached under his seat and pulled out a brown bag. More whiskey by the shape of it.

“Oh! Sure.” She did as she was asked and stepped out of the car, following him into the dark motel room. 

He turned the dresser light on, pulling out the liquor and pouring some into a water glass. He offered the cup to her and she took it. He drank directly from the bottle. Giselle downed the glass in two chugs and he offered to refill it, but she declined. She looked around the room, at the single queen bed in the center. She rubbed her arms, beginning to get nervous, wondering if he was one of the guys that wanted something she wasn’t willing to do at a point where it didn’t matter if she said no. 

“Strip and get on the bed.” He commanded, holding up a wad of cash and tossing it on the dresser top. Pulling the strapless dress straight down, hooking her panties with her thumbs as she passed, she stepped out of all her clothes in one motion. “Those stupid shoes, too.”

She slipped off her new stilettos feeling suddenly so small. Giselle crawled into the middle of the bed and sat with her back propped up against the headboard, her knees together and bent. 

“Lie down.” She did.

Leaving less than two inches of whiskey in the bottle he’d just opened, he turned off the light and undressed down to his underwear. The parking lot light filtered through the curtains, framing his muscular body. Reaching over he picked the whiskey up and drank another swig, staring at her body in the dim light. Her small, even breasts with large dark nipples - hard in the chill. Her hip bones that stuck out just a little too far. The smooth mound of her cunt, and down her thin thighs. 

Finally, he knelt on the end of the bed and she spread her legs, but he pushed them back together and crawled up beside her into her arm. He smelled of Old Spice and of earth. Giselle saw the dark outline of a tattoo on his clavicle and she reached out to touch it, but he pushed her hand away. He ran his palm up her rib cage and engulfed her breast in it, squeezing gently while he took the other into his mouth and sucked, circling the tip of her nipple with his tongue. She felt the wetness between her thighs. He pulled away from her tit, and looked sadly at her face. Touching the corner of her jaw with his fingertips, he leaned in and kissed her. 

It was a slow, despairing kiss, with his hand lightly pulling her face to his, as if she wouldn’t have met those perfect lips willingly. His kiss contained the same melancholy that the outcast boys kissed with: the desperate need to give love, and receive love in return, the hopeless belief that this was the closest they would ever get. Giselle preferred the hard and fast kisses of the braggarts, the ones who would tell their friends they kissed a whore and that damned chick flick was bullshit. These mournful kisses broke her heart when it was the boys, but this one shattered it. 

Giselle knew nothing about this man, but that his frown lines were as plentiful as his laugh lines. His green eyes contained a hidden smile even when he was stone-faced. His lips were soft and tasted of the liquor he drank like water. The thought that a man this beautiful, this quiet and gentle had lived any length of time without feeling loved by anyone broke Giselle’s faith in humanity. So she did for him what she never did for the boys, she reached out and lightly pulled him closer, not changing the pace or the kiss, but letting him know that she needed this too.

They kissed like this for a minute, maybe two, before he pulled away, avoiding eye contact. He pushed an arm beneath the small of her back and draped the other over her torso, resting his head on her left breast, listening to her heart beat. Giselle wrapped her arm around his shoulder stroking his rough cheek with her thumb, holding his hand in her free one. 

They held each other like this, one clinging to the other, until the black night turned grey. Giselle drifted to sleep listening to the even sound of the man’s breathing. When she woke, she was alone in the room with the empty whiskey bottle and pile of bills on the dresser. He had wrapped the comforter over her before leaving.

 _Laura,_ she thought picking up the money and skipping the motel, not bothering to check out. _Today, I can just be Laura._

 

\------------

Dean blinked slowly. Twice. He let out a short bark of laughter and pulled himself back up. Swaying dangerously and having to grab the rail for support.

“You’re drunk.” Sam said in revulsion. 

“Maybe.” Dean half fell and half stepped down the last few stairs standing proudly when he made it to solid floor.

“Were you out driving around like this?” Sam tried to maintain an even voice but failed. “What if you had crashed?”

“Hey! I made it. Didn’t I?” Dean argued back, pretty sure he was in the bunker.

“What if you had hit someone?”

“Kinda the same as crashing.”

“Jesus! Do you really only ever think of yourself?” Sam was shouting.

“Only since I lost my brother.” Dean’s voice dead as he said it. 

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but shut it. Dean stumbled past, making sure to bump into Sam’s shoulder. Sam threw his hands up in frustration and stormed off towards the store room. Dean walked as straight as he could to his bedroom and fell onto his bed; he couldn’t drink more without poisoning himself; he couldn’t hate himself more without killing himself. He reached for the bottle on his nightstand, but it was empty. Dean passed out before he could remember where the full one was.


End file.
